


A Man of Action

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drinking Games, Drunken Confessions, Exhaustion, M/M, POV Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27470935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: The end of a long case, plenty of scotch, comfy chairs...if only Greg could remember more than that.From the look in Mycroft's eyes, he remembers more, and he's taking action.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 18
Kudos: 205
Collections: Mark Gatiss birthday collection 2020





	A Man of Action

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Black_Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Dawn/gifts).



Even Mycroft had been scrambling to catch up by the time he and Lestrade had seen the link between their cases. It had been closer to Lestrade’s area of expertise than Mycroft’s; neither international espionage nor a high level of sophistication were involved.

“More of a gang of ruffians than a well-oiled machine,” Greg yawned, slumping into the wingback chair.

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured. He handed Greg a heavy glass, lamplight catching the amber liquid as it sloshed in his unsteady hand. “Apologies,” added Mycroft, sitting heavily in the chair beside Greg.

“Ta,” Greg said, ignoring the Scotch soaking his cuff. They were equally exhausted after several days with barely a break and the night felt soft around the edges already. What with the late hour and the silent opulence of this parlour at the Diogenes Club, there was a surreal edge to this whole evening. “Christ, that’s good,” he groaned, swirling the rich liquid around.

Mycroft hummed in response. His eyes were closed, head tilted back against the leather. Greg’s lazy eyes trailed down Mycroft’s neck, the flickers of firelight on alabaster highlighting the long lines. He grinned a little to himself, recognising the twist of desire in his stomach. It wasn’t unfamiliar; Greg was used to suppressing those particular impulses. This evening seemed to offer more moments to linger than usual, though. Greg wondered if it was the booze, the late hour or the camaraderie of working so closely together.

“I never thought I’d see you running down a suspect in Croydon,” he said.

One side of Mycroft’s mouth curled momentarily. “Never have I ever imagined myself in such a scenario,” he replied, the words low and amused. At Greg’s chuckle, he opened his eyes, raising one eyebrow in question.

“Never have I ever,” Greg repeated meaningfully. When Mycroft’s expression didn’t change, Greg added, “The drinking game. Never Have I Ever.”

“I am not acquainted with it,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg wasn’t surprised. “You make a statement,” he explained, “and if anyone in the room has done the thing, they drink.”

Mycroft’s brow creased faintly. “Why?”

Greg huffed a laugh. “Why not?”

When Mycroft looked unconvinced, Greg found himself saying, “For example. Never have I ever drunk expensive Scotch,” and set the example, drinking from his glass. When Mycroft mimicked him, Greg grinned, the curl of desire returning to prompt Mycroft along. “Your turn, then.”

The look Mycroft gave him made his insides twist sharply; the atmosphere slid once again into a heavy expectation. It was too intense, so Greg allowed his gaze to wander to the low flicker in the grate. For a long time, Greg looked into the fire. He wondered if Mycroft would answer.

When he finally spoke, Greg jerked a little, the sound pulling him out of his reverie. “Never have I ever stayed up all night,” he said, sipping immediately and avoiding Greg’s gaze. Greg drank too, the thrill curling through him at the idea of playing this with Mycroft here and now.

“I believe it is your turn, Gregory,” Mycroft said, smiling a little into his glass.

“You did an easy one,” Greg replied, struggling to decide on his next move. “Never have I ever worked on Christmas,” he said finally.

They drank.

“Never have I ever preferred to work on Christmas,” Mycroft replied immediately.

They drank.

“Family?” Greg asked tentatively.

“Family,” Mycroft confirmed.

Silence cloaked them for a few moments, both lost in thought until Greg said, “Never have I ever lied to my mother to avoid visiting.”

Mycroft shot him a reproving look before drinking. Greg met his eyes over the rim of his own glass. It was slow, but the conversation was definitely moving in a new direction. He found himself holding his breath, wondering if Mycroft would follow the path or retreat to a more familiar exchange.

_Come along with me, Mycroft. Let’s see where this goes…_

“Never have I ever,” Mycroft said, “been caught lying to my mother to avoid visiting.”

The pair of quiet chuckles were broken by twin swallows. Silence fell again, and Greg felt another shift in the air. It was heavier, more intimate as they made the careful transition from professional to personal. Neither had openly acknowledged it, but Greg hoped if he only pushed a little, followed Mycroft’s lead if he retreated…He didn’t want to leap too far ahead, but things might get interesting.

“Never have I ever,” Greg said, hesitating, _wondering_ , before he said, “brought someone home to meet my mother.” He drank a little – it was potent stuff, and he was exhausted – and studied Mycroft, who resolutely did not raise his glass. Greg wanted to apologise almost immediately, but Mycroft spoke instead.

“Never have I ever allowed my mother to set me up,” Mycroft replied, cheeks pinker in the firelight as he raised his glass.

“Christ,” Greg muttered, lifting his glass only to find it empty. Groaning, he pushed himself up, gripping the wing of the chair as his head swam.

“Never have I ever passed out in this room,” Mycroft said, his voice amused.

“Never have I ever been a cheeky bastard,” Greg replied. “You’d better finish that off, Mycroft.”

Concentrating, he collected the bottle from the side table, sloshing a measure in each of their glasses. As he returned to his seat, Greg wasn’t sure exactly why his heart was pounding, but he suspected it had something to do with the dark amusement in Mycroft’s voice.

Without pausing to think, Greg said recklessly, “Never have I ever fancied a colleague.” He sipped at his glass, resolutely ignoring the horrified expression from Mycroft.

“Define colleague.”

The clarification was a surprise, and Greg found himself looking at Mycroft as he considered his answer.

“Someone you work with,” Greg replied. He could feel Mycroft’s self-awareness as he raised his glass. Interesting. Greg opened his mouth again, but Mycroft beat him to it.

“I believe you have already taken two turns, Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice gently admonished him. He sat in contemplation until, “Never have I ever considered…” his voice trailed off, and Greg found he was holding his breath. “Never have I ever considered asking out a colleague.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Greg asked.

“Fancying someone and asking them out are worlds apart, Gregory,” Mycroft replied.

“True enough,” Greg said, taking the sip Mycroft’s expression told him he was due. “Your turn again, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Mycroft said. “Never have I ever wished to ask a question without fear of repercussions.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Such big words,” he muttered. The booze was definitely going to his head, but he had to match Mycroft in drinking for that statement. “Never have I ever wanted someone to use smaller words.”

Mycroft blinked, his glass remaining on the arm of his chair as Greg swallowed. Greg couldn’t tell if it was his increasingly bleary eyesight or reality that Mycroft’s fingers tightened before he spoke.

“Would you prefer I did so?”

Greg blinked, taking a second to process the question. “Yeah,” he said, sensing something being offered.

“I wonder if I might ask you a question,” Mycroft said carefully.

“Sure,” Greg replied, heart thumping when his head caught up. Surely Mycroft wasn’t about to…

“It is…an unusual question,” Mycroft said. “Sensitive. Not something generally asked in polite company.”

_Okay, not that then._

“Just ask me, Mycroft,” Greg said, ignoring the twist of disappointment.

“Under one condition,” Mycroft replied.

“Okay,” Greg said. He definitely did not need more Scotch, eyes growing heavy as he waited for Mycroft to speak again.

“Please do not ask me why I wish to know,” Mycroft said.

Greg blinked again, his brain taking a second to catch up. “Mycroft,” he said carefully, “I will answer you honestly. But I might not ever remember this conversation tomorrow.” He raised his glass, the ghost of Scotch barely coating the bottom of the otherwise empty glass. “I’ve had a lot of your Scotch.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied. He drew a deep breath then seemed to remember he was holding his own glass. Throwing back the last of his own drink, he swallowed and blurted, “Would you ever consider dating a man?”

Greg blew out a long breath, closing his eyes for a second against the swirling room. Jesus, was that all? Thank God Mycroft hadn’t asked something awkward. He grinned happily, forcing his eyes open, concentrating to focus on Mycroft’s face. “Of course,” he replied. “I’ve dated a bunch of men, Mycroft.” He sighed, eyes wandering toward the dying fire. “Nobody as nice as you. Or handsome.”

A squeak pulled his gaze back, and Mycroft’s astonished face was the last thing Greg saw before his heavy eyelids closed. “Wish I could meet someone nice…” Something thudded hard, but he was being dragged into the swirling vortex of sleep so it didn’t really matter anymore.

+++

Greg winced. His neck was sore, something had evidently made a nest in his mouth and his head was throbbing. Jesus, had he gone to another high school party? Stretching carefully, he felt something slide and grabbed at the fabric over his legs. A blanket. Someone had draped a blanket over his legs? It took a few moments for him to wake up, but when he was finally upright the surroundings were familiar.

_Am I at the Diogenes Club?_

Glancing around Greg spied a note set perfectly square to the edge of the coffee table. Clearly Mycroft. Carefully – his head wasn’t entirely steady – Greg eased forward, picking up the note. He scanned it twice, the main points floating gently to the surface.

_Bottled water in the fridge._

_Aspirin on the mantle._

_Dial 0 to order a car._

Greg nodded, though nobody was there to see it and he regretted the action immediately. When the stars receded from his vision he stood carefully, holding the wing of his chair until he was able to walk across the room. The water and aspirin were an excellent idea. As he filled his glass again, Greg thought back to the previous evening. He remembered finishing up the Howdon case. He remembered coming back here with Mycroft. There was definitely booze – that was clear from the taste in his mouth as well as his headache – but he was sure there was something else. What were they doing that he drank so much? It was hardly the usual progression of their evenings together.

Much as he tried to remember, Greg knew there was something missing.

Once the aspirin started to kick in, Greg knew it was time to head out. He picked up the phone and dialled 0.

“Hi, this is Greg Lestrade,” he said, wincing as the reverberation in his head. “I think…can I get a taxi, maybe?”

“Mr. Lestrade,” the voice on the other end said, thankfully quiet and smooth. “Mr. Holmes just arrived. He will be with you momentarily.”

“Oh,” Greg said. “Right, well, I’ll just wait for him, then.”

“Very good, sir,” the voice said before hanging up.

Greg blinked, wondering if he had time to brush his teeth before Mycroft arrived. He knew where the bathroom was; a quick snoop and he struck gold, several brand new toothbrushes and travel sized toothpastes helping him feel far more ready to accept company.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, Mycroft was waiting.

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured. “Hi.”

“Good afternoon,” he replied.

Greg was going to say something, but Mycroft’s face bore such an unfamiliar expression the words died on his lips. Instead he stood silent as Mycroft squared his shoulders and dropped his chin before striding purposefully across the room. He stopped two paces from Greg, eyes determined in a way that was both startling and breath-taking.

“What do you remember of last night?” Mycroft asked.

“Not everything,” Greg admitted. He swallowed, the grey of Mycroft’s eyes pulling him in. “Why?” he croaked.

Fear flashed a moment, but the determined flared again, eclipsing it. “Our conversation led me to believe my action might not be poorly received,” Mycroft whispered. “Forgive me if I was wrong, but I cannot allow such an opportunity to slide by.”

Greg frowned. “What action?” he said.

As their eyes held, he still had no idea. It wasn’t until Mycroft flinched, eyes dropping down to linger on Greg’s mouth that the penny dropped.

_Holy shit, he’s going to-_

The thought was cut short as Mycroft stepped forward. Greg barely had time to brace for a strong and passionate kiss, so when Mycroft’s lips brushed his, a sharp inhalation and ‘Oh!’ of surprise escaped at the soft touch.

Mycroft froze, millimetres from Greg. His breath ghosted over Greg’s face; was the mint from his own breath or Mycroft’s? Had he brushed in preparation?

The air crackled with anticipation and Greg realised he had to do something. Mycroft was waiting for a reaction. For something to clarify the noise he’d made. For Greg to indicate whether he was okay with the kissing. Was he okay with the kissing?

_Jesus, do you really have to think about this?_

Swaying forward was enough to bring their lips together again.

This time the sharp inhalation was Mycroft’s.

Greg waited a long beat before easing back. He opened his eyes, blinking at Mycroft. When grey eyes met his, Greg swallowed.

“What the fuck did I say last night?” he whispered.

The question hung in the air until the ridiculousness of it finally settled over them both. Mycroft’s smile started first, Greg’s chasing closely behind it until they were grinning at each other.

“Seriously,” Greg said, shaping the words around his smile, “what happened last night?”

“Perhaps that is a conversation for another time,” Mycroft said, easing closer.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Greg said. He barely got the words out before Mycroft was kissing him again, and that was absolutely fine with him.


End file.
